


copper wire

by sabinelagrande



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Catharsis, Comfort Sex, Crowley & Anathema Device Friendship, Crying During Sex, Cunnilingus, Dom Anathema Device, Dom Crowley (Good Omens), Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, M/M, Maledom, Protective Crowley (Good Omens), South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), Sub Aziraphale (Good Omens), Sub Newton Pulsifer, Subdrop, Wings, whatever it is when it's cock warming only it's a vulva
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:20:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22207759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabinelagrande/pseuds/sabinelagrande
Summary: Crowley makes a phone call. Anathema answers it. There's a bit more to it than that.
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Anathema Device
Comments: 17
Kudos: 323
Collections: Ixnael’s Recommendations





	1. South Downs

Crowley wakes up with a spring in his step, to be perfectly honest. He slept like the dead; this might be literal, because sometimes he stops breathing if he's not paying attention. Either way, he feels refreshed and ready for the day, which probably consists of sitting with Aziraphale and reconsidering his planned overhaul for the garden.

He takes a shower first thing; he usually doesn't, but when they do what they did, Crowley likes to go to bed with sweat still on him, feel it dry and prickle on his skin so he can keep the memory of it next to him. It's hot, but still, morning shower required. It's only sexy for a certain period of time.

He takes a look at himself in the mirror afterwards and whistles. Aziraphale is the one who gets marked, but he's left five perfect scratches across one of Crowley's shoulder blades; he got so wild that he full out clawed at Crowley, and it was just delightful.

Reluctantly, he dresses and leaves the bathroom; here in the cottage, he's taken to letting his wardrobe loosen a little bit, like all of him has loosened. There's no reason to paint on jeans when it's just him and Aziraphale, away from some of the pretension they had to deal with for the past six thousand years.

Not that they're not both a little pretentious, in their own ways.

When Crowley steps out into the living room, Aziraphale is sitting by the window; it's raining, pattering against the glass and the ground, loud enough to make a difference but not overwhelming.

"Hey there, angel," Crowley says. Aziraphale doesn't respond. He looks over Aziraphale's shoulder to see what book is distracting him, but there's no book. "Are you alright?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Aziraphale snaps.

Crowley frowns at the stuffy snippiness in his tone. It's not like it's new, but Aziraphale- now Aziraphale, _his_ Aziraphale- doesn't sound like that. "Want some company?" he asks.

"No, thank you," Aziraphale says.

"Cocoa?" Crowley tries.

"I said no, Crowley," Aziraphale says, and he hasn't looked at Crowley once.

"Ah," Crowley says, unable to come up with a response. "Um, well, if you need me-"

"I know how to find you," Aziraphale says. "It's a small house."

Crowley can't help but feel stung. He was hoping to maybe sit with Aziraphale and dissect how fucking amazing the previous night had been; failing that, they could just sit in companionable silence, maybe with Crowley resting his head in Aziraphale's lap. Crowley doesn't even mind it when Aziraphale forgets what he's doing and rests the spine of his book on Crowley's face, even though Crowley complains vociferously and expects profuse apologies.

Crowley turns the pages of a magazine showing suggestions for maximizing space for herbs and fails to take in any information on the subject.

All he can think of is what Aziraphale's face had looked like the night before, the pain and the pure shining joy on it. He can still see the arch of Aziraphale's back as Crowley landed the perfect blow across his perfect ass. They had both been transported, given themselves over to the sheer materiality of being corporeal, the way bodies could transmute pain, turn it into rapturous pleasure. It didn't feel like flying; it didn't feel like trading essences; it didn't feel like seeing Her face. It was sweaty and sticky and dense and so _thick_ , the microcosm of their room filled to every corner with the sound of how much Crowley had to give and how much Aziraphale would take, the miasma of it that almost felt like a physical thing.

And now Aziraphale is sitting by the window, dressed up to his bowtie and down to his wingtips. He has a book, but that's all that's changed, not so much as a word, this feeling of "don't touch" radiating off him.

It's lunchtime before Crowley looks up, suddenly making the connection. Morose Aziraphale today is probably related to euphoric Aziraphale last night; there's no other explanation for it. Their bodies are still bodies, and they still contain hormones and adrenaline and all that nonsense. Aziraphale's must be out of whack somehow, and it's Crowley's fault.

Crowley could probably look this up on the internet; he's not going to, because the only thing he's actually good at is finding porn. That's usually what he wants from the internet, but right now it would only cause trouble. He picks up his phone instead, because he has what is past a hunch and on into an understanding concerning at least one person of his acquaintance.

"Hello?" Anathema says lazily, after three rings.

"I broke Aziraphale," Crowley blurts. 

There's the muffled sound of what is certainly Newt's voice, followed by shushing. "How do you think I can help?" Anathema says. "My specialization is in human magic-"

"I broke him in a kinky way," Crowley says. Anathema has never actually confessed to him in any way to any interest in BDSM, but if there's anyone with big dom energy, it's her. "He's all tense and prickly today. He won't even look at me."

"Why would I-" Anathema says, then she sighs. "Fuck it, it's not like it's not obvious. It sounds like he dropped, and you need to help him out of it."

"Aha," Crowley says. There is a pause. "Pretend I don't know what that is, for the sake of argument."

"Jesus Christ," Anathema mutters. "You probably sent him pretty high, and today he crashed. It doesn't always happen, but if you're going to be there for him, you need to fix it."

"If you think I haven't been fixing shit for him for six thousand years, you've got another thing coming," Crowley says.

"Okay, so, practical solutions," Anathema says. "Feed him. Wrap him up in a blanket and hold him." There's a muffled conversation. "Newt says lots of hair petting, but that's Newt's answer to everything."

"General cosseting, got it," Crowley says. "What else?"

"The other part is trickier," Anathema says reluctantly. "You have to find out why he's upset."

"He's upset because I took a paddle and- look, the specifics aren't important," Crowley says. 

"Yeah, but how did that translate in his head?" Anathema says. "Is it wrong that he liked it? Does he hate himself for letting someone treat him like that?"

"Ask him if he's mad at himself because he couldn't take more," Newt puts in, speaking up like he's several inches from the phone. "That one's the worst."

"What if I can't find out?" Crowley says. "What if he doesn't know?"

"Then lots of hair stroking, definitely," Anathema says. "If you can't get to the bottom of it, you just have to ride it out."

"Right," Crowley says, sighing decisively. He pauses. "Do you always answer the phone during sex?"

"You have to keep them dangling," Anathema says, with a grin in her voice.

"Back to it, then," Crowley says, and he hangs up. He lets out another heavy sigh. Right. He can do this.

Aziraphale is still sitting by the window, looking out at the rain and sipping distractedly at a cup of tea, so Crowley sneaks around behind him, relocating Aziraphale's favorite blanket and a huge wedge of chocolate cake to the bedroom. He probably doesn't need anything else; he can play it by ear.

"Angel, if you don't mind, would you come to bed with me?" Crowley asks, once he's ready.

Aziraphale's face is unreadable. "Is that an order?"

"Of course not," Crowley says innocently. "Just thought you'd like a bit of a cuddle. Chilly day and everything."

"Alright," Aziraphale says skeptically, and he starts towards the bedroom.

By the time Crowley gets there, Aziraphale is sitting on his side of the bed, and the only concession he's made is taking his shoes off.

"You're going to cuddle with your waistcoat on?" Crowley says. Aziraphale huffs, but waves a hand, changing into the soft cotton pajamas he likes to lie next to Crowley in while Crowley sleeps. "That's better. C'mon, get in."

Aziraphale lies down under the covers, and Crowley strips down to his boxers before sliding in next to him. He pulls Aziraphale to him immediately, putting his chin on top of Aziraphale's head.

"When are you going to tell me what's wrong, love?" Crowley says. "And if you're about to deny it, you can sell that somewhere else."

Aziraphale cracks immediately, but Crowley knew he would. "I'm so sorry," he says, pressing his face into Crowley's neck.

"What for?" Crowley asks, puzzled. "You haven't done anything."

"I've been so selfish," Aziraphale says. "I corrupted you just because I needed someone for my filthy proclivities, and then I couldn't face you to apologize."

"Okay," Crowley says slowly. "First off, I love being corrupted almost as much as I love corrupting people. But since when do you have filthy proclivities?" He frowns. "You mean the BDSM stuff?"

"I never should have dragged you down with me," Aziraphale says. "I never should have forced you to-"

"Well that's enough of that," Crowley says, pushing Aziraphale onto his back.

"Crowley, be serious," Aziraphale says.

"Stop me if you don't want this, angel, we're not playing," Crowley says, and he stretches out over Aziraphale, caging him in with his arms. "But I never properly showed my appreciation last night."

"Appreciation?" Aziraphale says, his brow furrowing.

"For this beautiful body you let me have," Crowley says, kissing Aziraphale's neck. "You'll let me do extraordinary things to it, and I'm very grateful."

"That's simply not how it is," Aziraphale says, though he lifts his chin to give Crowley more room.

"You know full well that's exactly how it is," Crowley says. He improvises, changes his tack. "You're working under a fundamental misconception, dear."

"Which is?" Aziraphale sniffs.

"You still think you have a choice," Crowley says, and Aziraphale's breath hitches. "You gave me your body, and you gave up your right to tell me what to do with it."

"Crowley, I-"

"Shush," Crowley says. There's a nasty-looking hickey peeking out of the neck of Aziraphale's pajamas, and Crowley presses his finger into it, not enough to really hurt but enough to make it obvious. "You feel that? I did that because you're mine. You didn't get a choice. I didn't do it for your sake." He bends down, speaking into Aziraphale's ear. "I'll do everything I want to you, because you're mine to play with."

When Crowley pulls back, there are tears at the corners of Aziraphale's eyes, threatening to drip down his face. "Angel?" Crowley says, feeling real fear that this was the wrong idea.

"Don't stop," Aziraphale says, voice thick. "Oh please, don't stop, darling."

Crowley snaps, and both their clothes disappear. "Maybe you need some sense fucked into you," Crowley says, kissing his shoulder, gentle despite his words. "None of this nonsense of you making me do things. That's just not how it works, sweetheart."

It's intimate, but somehow just not quite enough. Crowley rolls his shoulders, and his wings extend, inky black even in the dim light of the room. He lets them rest against the bed, separating Aziraphale from the rest of the world, keeping him present, here with Crowley.

"Get yourself ready for me," he says, spreading Aziraphale's legs. The word for him, Crowley thinks, is not soft; it's generous. He's enough to get a solid grip on, fingers finding purchase in a thigh or the curve of his waist, digging in just so. Last night he left a set of bruises doing just that, and he places his fingers over them, indulging in the memory.

Crowley presses two fingers into Aziraphale, both to check and also for the way that Aziraphale squirms when he does it. There's no mistaking that Aziraphale is good to go, so Crowley doesn't waste another second; he hikes Aziraphale's knees up, pulling him into just the right spot. He pushes in slowly, and Aziraphale draws in a breath, letting it out in a sigh as Crowley starts moving inside of him.

"Do you know how long I wanted to tear you up, angel?" Crowley says, fucking him slow but hard, thrusts that shake Aziraphale's body. "I can't remember a time I didn't want you. Ever since I heard people were beating each other for fun, I couldn't stop thinking about how much I'd like to leave welts on your skin." He pushes his thumb hard into a bruise on Aziraphale's hip, and Aziraphale hisses. "I'm just shocked I could restrain myself for so long."

Aziraphale is only responding in gasps, thrusts of his hips; he's fully crying now, but somehow it doesn't seem like he's sad. It looks more like catharsis than anything else, but it's not for Crowley to decide if it is.

"How do you feel, angel?" Crowley asks softly, running his thumb along Aziraphale's cheekbone, through the tears. His wings fold to wrap tighter, narrowing around their bodies, so that it's just the two of them in the darkness, Aziraphale held safely against him.

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says. "Please, more."

"Do you know how lucky I am, Aziraphale?" Crowley says, moving faster. "I wanted to get my hands on you for so long, and I never dreamed you'd actually feel the same. I would have given the whole thing up for you, but you gave yourself to me, for me to bite and mark and kiss." It's so hard to keep talking, but Crowley pushes through it for Aziraphale. "It's not you making anybody do anything, dearest. It's me getting exactly what I wanted."

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, voice breaking into a sob. "Crowley, I love you so much."

"Love you too," Crowley says, his heart clenching. "Fuck, I love you more than anything." 

Aziraphale gasps, and Crowley sort of forgets what he's doing for a minute, lost in his need to make Aziraphale feel as good as possible. The bed is shaking now, creaking rhythmically as Crowley thrusts, but Crowley kind of hopes they break it, just to say they did, and also so they can buy a better mattress.

Crowley can't take much more of this, the heat of Aziraphale's body around his, the tears of relief streaming down Aziraphale's face. He gets a hand around Aziraphale's cock, stroking it quickly. "Ready to come for me?"

"Yes," Aziraphale says brokenly. Aziraphale's back arches as he comes onto his own stomach, and it pulls Crowley over too, leaves him gasping out Aziraphale's name, off hand clutching Aziraphale's thigh tight.

Crowley sighs, letting it settle before he starts to pull out. "Don't," Aziraphale says, catching his wrist.

"Alright," Crowley says, unable to deny him anything. He lowers Aziraphale's legs, his feet on the bed, but he doesn't move, staying within the tight warmth of Aziraphale's body, not like that's a hardship, especially when he doesn't have to go soft if it doesn't want.

He bends down instead, kissing Aziraphale gently, trying to prove it wasn't just something he said during sex, like it was what he meant and not just what Aziraphale wanted to hear. Every word of it was gospel, and he's just going to have to trust that Aziraphale knows that.

He strokes Aziraphale's body, his thigh, his flank, just settling him. "You can move if you like," Aziraphale says, after a few long moments still joined. "I just needed-"

He stalls out, so Crowley kisses his head. "You don't have to explain," he says, pulling away.

Having his wings out has been nice, but it's not doing it for him anymore; Crowley folds them up, letting them disappear into his back. He lays down next to Aziraphale and pulls him in, Aziraphale curled into his side, his head on Crowley's chest.

"Feeling any better, angel?" Crowley says, and he does do some head petting, just in case.

"A bit," Aziraphale says, clinging to him a little tighter. "Thank you for your help."

"You're wrong if you think my help stops here," Crowley says. "I'm going to feed you a whole piece of cake and cuddle you until you get sick of it."

Aziraphale smiles wanly. "I believe you'll find that quite impossible."

"Only one way to find out," Crowley says. "You really did do an amazing job last night." He doesn't know if he can say what he's about to, but he has to do it. "I've never felt that way before. I didn't even know it could be like that."

"Oh, I was so hoping that you liked it," Aziraphale says, relieved. "Because I thought it was just superb." He looks abashed, or maybe chagrined. "I was feeling a little guilty over how much I liked it."

"You don't have the least little thing feel guilty about," Crowley says. He puts his hand behind his head. "Job well done, I think."

"I did hear that there was cake," Aziraphale says hopefully.

Crowley tilts his head towards the nightstand. Aziraphale removes the napkin to find a plate with a prodigious slice of- what else?- devil's food cake. 

He leans over, not to the cake, but to Crowley. "You take such good care of me, my dear," he says, kissing Crowley on the forehead.

Aziraphale picks up the plate and fork, taking a bite and sighing happily. Crowley rolls over, curling around Aziraphale, his arm thrown over Aziraphale's lap. "I'm trying," he says to Aziraphale's hip. He can't be sure Aziraphale hears, and he's not sure whether he wanted him to. Aziraphale's hand rests on his head for a moment, just long enough, and then his touch is gone.

And back to his cake. Priorities, and all that.


	2. Tadfield

It's been an easy morning, and to be perfectly honest, Newt's been having an easy time of it. He woke up before Anathema, so he extracted himself from bed and padded into the kitchen. He made coffee and toast, returning to the bedroom with it to find Anathema just sitting up.

"Morning," he said, kissing her forehead before handing her her coffee.

She eyed him. "Have you brushed your teeth and everything?"

"No," he said, a little confused.

"Go do that now," she said, sitting back with her cup of coffee. When he got back, he only got more confused when she put the coffee in his hands and swung her legs off the bed, walking to the bathroom herself.

"There," she said; it was pretty hard to miss the fact that she'd left her panties somewhere between the bed and the bathroom. She ensconced herself in bed again and took her coffee. "Now we won't be disrupted."

"Oh?" Newt said.

"Come here," she said, sliding down the bed a bit and crooking a finger at him. He went very willingly, letting her pull him into her arms. She kissed him soundly, but it didn't go on quite as long as Newt would have liked. "I want something very specific from you."

"Name it," he said.

She pushed on his shoulder, leaning him downwards. "Use your mouth, but _don't_ make me come."

"Like, edging?" he asked; sometimes she liked that, almost as much as she liked doing it to him.

"No," she said. She threw the covers over them, leaving it draped about Newt's shoulders. "Just keep me interested."

That was a while ago, and Newt has absolutely no idea how long. He's just stayed exactly where he was told. His jaw is killing him, but he hasn't wavered from his task. He keeps running his tongue over her, but gently, holding her open so he can lick in deeper. He's tried her clit a couple of times, but when he got too overzealous, she flicked his ear in warning.

It's arousing, definitely, but he's at this point where he's transcended being turned on. He's lost track of everything except Anathema in front of him. He's never had quite so much time to really examine her, take in every minute detail, catalogue every bit of sensation he can elicit. He has that sensation of floating that comes from being thoroughly taken, and he's going to stay right here, whether it ends with him coming or not.

Anathema is mostly reading, sipping her coffee, but she runs her hand intermittently through his hair, playing with the thick strands. It strikes Newt that he could stay like this for the rest of his life and die a happy man.

It doesn't even really startle him when Anathema's phone, which Newt knows she keeps on do not disturb until she gets out of bed, starts blasting "Bicycle" by Queen. It's a thing that's happening, but Newt's thoughts are elsewhere.

"That has to be Crowley," she says. She grabs Newt by the hair, pulling him up so that his face is resting on her stomach. "Wonder why he didn't text." She yawns before swiping the screen. "Hello?"

Anathema's face grows alarmed. "What's he saying?" Newt says, rubbing his cheek against Anathema's stomach like a cat.

Anathema puts her hand over the microphone. "Shut up." She moves her hand. "How do you think I can help? My specialization is in human magic-"

She breaks off suddenly, her eyes going wide. "Why would I-" She squeezes her eyes tightly shut for a moment before opening them again, sighing; interestingly, she puts her hand back in Newt's hair. "Fuck it, it's not like it's not obvious. It sounds like he dropped, and you need to help him out of it."

"Oh shit," Newt says quietly.

Crowley speaks for a moment. "Jesus Christ," Anathema mutters in response, rubbing her forehead, and Newt wishes he could hear the other end. "You probably sent him pretty high, and today he crashed. It doesn't always happen, but if you're going to be there for him, you need to fix it."

Newt is a little blindsided by the whole thing. He didn't know about Aziraphale and Crowley, and he certainly didn't know that Anathema knew, but somehow Crowley knew about _her_ , and it is hurting his head a bit.

"Okay, so, practical solutions," Anathema says. "Feed him. Wrap him up in a blanket and hold him." 

"Tell him to stroke his hair, that's always nice," Newt says puts in.

Anathema gives him an indulgent smile. "Newt says lots of hair petting, but that's Newt's answer to everything."

Crowley speaks again, and Newt sees Anathema pursing her lips, like she does when she's frustrated with a problem. "The other part is trickier," she says. "You have to find out why he's upset."

Newt feels bad for all of them at that point- Aziraphale and Crowley having to go through it, and Anathema having to walk someone else through something very hard that Newt really doesn't even like thinking about.

"Yeah, but how did that translate in his head?" Anathema says. "Is it wrong that he liked it? Does he hate himself for letting someone treat him like that?"

Newt motions to Anathema, and she holds the phone out. "Ask him if he's mad at himself because he couldn't take more," he says into it. "That one's the worst."

Anathema gives him a thumbs up as she puts the phone back to her ear to listen to Crowley's next comment. "Then lots of hair stroking, definitely," she says. "If you can't get to the bottom of it, you just have to ride it out."

Anathema grins dirtily, and Newt can guess what Crowley just said. "You have to keep them dangling," she says, grinning.

She hangs up the phone. "I'm sorry if that broke the mood," she says, stroking Newt's hair.

"It did, a bit," Newt admits. He rubs his jaw, feeling like he's just waking up. "What time is it?"

"Almost noon," she says.

"Damn," he says, honestly impressed with himself.

"Come up here," she says, and he goes. He gasps when she strokes him through his boxers. "You did an exceedingly good job, my dear."

"Thank you," Newt sighs, trying not to go off in her hand.

Anathema hooks her fingers in his waistband, pulling his boxers away from his skin and down past his cock. "Now I'm more than ready for this."

"Whatever you want," he says earnestly, as she guides him to her. 

His eyes actually roll back in his head as he presses inside of her. Clearly all that indulgence was exactly the right idea, because he sinks into her as easy as breathing. He could swear she's never felt this hot, this wet before, and he'd already thought she was extraordinary.

"Take it slow," she says, putting her arms around his neck. "I want this to last."

"Nothing could make me happier," he says, rolling hips slowly into hers.

They're going to be at this a while. Better leave them to it.


End file.
